Cannoli of the Spring 1975 Forever Blue seq Lines
by sjowall1452
Summary: Eight years after his partner is killed, Jimmy Bruno goes to visit the rookie, now working in New York and living in the Village, who did all the work at the crime scene, because he wasn't up to it.


Cannoli of the Spring (1975)

Perhaps it's the color of the sun cut flat  
An' cov'rin' the crossroads I'm standing at,  
Or maybe it's the weather or something like that,  
But Baby, you been on my mind.

Bob Dylan, 1964

One of the many advantages of living in the Village is that you're never very far from a good cup of coffee on your day off. James Macpherson stopped in the doorway of his favorite bakery in all of New York City, seeing Jimmy Bruno staring at two cannoli, behind the glass. It seemed to Macpherson that it was an absent minded—and rather sad—look to bestow on the cannoli from this bakery. But Bruno was probably not yet familiar with them. Nor did the look sort well with his… red shirt and _blue jeans. My God, he's on vacation_, Macpherson thought. He looked around the store and quickly found a medium blue parka with the lining in neatly placed over the back of a chair at one of the empty marble-topped tables. He put his own brown one on the other chair. He walked up behind Bruno, and said, "You are looking at the sweetest fruit on God's green earth."

Bruno whirled around, not liking or trusting surprises. His face lit up: "Jim! I was going to look you up."

"One cannoli says you already did."

"Uh… yeah." (Finding Macpherson's address hadn't been nearly as hard as he had thought it would be.. Especially since had done it before, wthout heading in that direction.) "_Cannolo_. Cannoli? Kind of soggy and tasteless."

"Not these. Crust is light and crispy, Marsala and some brandy in it, bit of bittersweet chocolate, and the filling is… indescribable. Anyway, they're wonderful."

"Two cannoli, please," he said to the man behind the counter, "and two coffees."

"I'll get that," Macpherson said. "They pay better in New York than Philadelphia." (_And living alone is a lot cheaper than living alone and supporting_ _three children_, but he didn't say that.)

"Thanks." Bruno returned his wallet to the back pocket of his jeans. "Great way to start the morning, or afternoon, or whatever it is. And I'm starving…" They carried their food and drink to the table, and sat down. "So how'd you know this was my table?"

"Jacket matches your eyes," said Macpherson, neatly cutting his pastry with a fork. _Sometimes. They change like the ocean._

"Nothing matches my eyes," said Bruno. _Sometimes they were like goddamn seashells._

Macpherson looked into the eyes in question, fork poised halfway to his mouth: "That's true enough."

"This is… fantastic…" said Bruno, after swallowing. He didn't say that with Macpherson's last three words, the cannoli suddenly tasted like ashes. _He_ _was_ _starving…_

"Told you."

"You…" Bruno put his fork down, looked at the table.

"C'mon, Jimmy, spit it out," Macpherson said calmly. "I can take it."

"It's… just your shirt."

"My shirt?"

"it's just… you look so great in dark green," said Bruno, blushing.

"Me? I'm an ugly son-of-a-bitch. But dark green looks great on even the ugliest redhead."

"Who told you you were ugly?"

Macpherson smiled. "My mother, first, probably."

"But… the truth is… I'm sorry, but I think any man of reasonable intelligence, good looks and excellent references who told me nothing matched my eyes, I'd look at like…"

"Yes? Go on."

"Um, something like… raw meat. Well, not at home. Maybe here in New York."

Macpherson, unsurprised, sipped his coffee. Bruno had expected him to laugh. "What have you been doing with your spare time… for the past eight years?"

"As little as possible."

"As little of _what _as possible?"

"Spare time. I work like crazy."

"You can't live like that."

Bruno could have said "Like what?" But he assumed that Macpherson had probably grown more rather than less insightful over the last eight years, so he said simply: "Some people do."

"If you call that living. Yes, some people do."

"I don't mean… no sex, but, well… you can imagine."

"I can. Let's get the hell out of here. I'm afraid all the oxygen's leaving the air."

They got up, zipped up their jackets against the cold spring air. A Dixieland LP started playing on the phonograph. As they were two feet from the door, rain came down, in a torrent.

"Whoa," said Bruno. "The sky was clear when I got here."

"It won't last long," said Macpherson. The two tall men, leaning against the wall, appeared to be_ stationed_ there. Macpherson occasionally looked out the window at the pedestrians fighting their umbrellas, or hailing passing cabs.

A small woman, with the properly shaped nose, came up to them. She had come from the back, and had not seen them before.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" she asked.

"We're staking out the cannoli," said Macpherson. Bruno put one hand over his eyes, but smiled.

Unfamiliar with the terminology, but familiar with the pastry, she turned, and then said, "I'm sorry, we have no more cannoli."

"Right," said Bruno. He smiled at her. "We ate your last two. We're just waiting out the storm."

"No," said Macpherson, poking Bruno in the shoulder. "We'll have to stake out the tiramisu."

Bruno tapped his forehead with the almost universal gesture: "_e' matto_," he said to her.

"_Capisco_," she said, and turned to the three employees behind the counter. "They are… (she put her hands on either side of her chest, fingers spread and facing her breastbone, above her breasts, closed her eyes, and lifted her chin, twice, quickly) _innamorato_." The young woman and one of the men smiled; the other man laughed aloud, cheerfully. Bruno and Macpherson looked at each other dubiously.

"We are _not_. We… just met. Practically," said Bruno.

"Could we perhaps have a bit more time?" asked Macpherson.

She turned back to them, and pointed her index fingers at them without removing the rest of her hands from her chest: "Life is short," she said. "The rain has stopped." She turned gracefully and walked away. It was true; the rain had stopped, and the dark clouds were scudding quickly away.

"This is the most amazing place I have ever been," said Bruno, as they turned toward the door. On the recordplayer, Kid Ory was blowing a solo on the slide trombone. "Just a second—listen to that guy…"

"Cry?"

"Yeah."

"That's Kid Ory… 'n… mmm… that's 'Joe Turner's Blues'… Not the one that wrote 'Shake, Rattle and Roll;' the folk hero, sort of like Robin Hood—stole from the rich; gave to the poor." Bruno smiled; policemen weren't frequently offered a chance to think of Robin Hood.

"I don't know anything about jazz… except everyone seems to be off doing his own thing, but they all fit together anyway."

"Next is 'Harlem Blues.' I have the record; I'll play it for you at my place." He turned them left as they went out the door.

After a moment: "I've been thinking about seducing you, slowly during the walk home," Macpherson continued, matter-of-factly.

"You… thought you'd have to seduce me? Are you kidding?"

"Oh? You're not afraid anymore?"

"O.K." he laughed. "I'm still afraid. Proceed."

"That's the operative word, isn't it? Look at it this way. For the last… eight years…has it been good to be alive?"

"Just barely. My work; my kids. It's something, Jim."

"It is. But, look at it this way: suppose you fall in love, or…something like that," (_Baby, you've been on my mind,_ the words came unbidden into his mind) and, no matter how carefully or carelessly you handle the affair, someone finds out. And you get fired. Or you get slaughtered."

"Huh?"

Macpherson ignored the question. "How much worse off would you be?"

"I really do like my work…" Bruno looked off to the side, took a breath. "Not much."

"Contrary to popular belief, suffering is not good for the soul, the body or the mind. I like my work too, by the way…"

A pause. Then, "I loved him. I still love him."

"When did you decide that?"

"The night he was killed."

"Pretty eventful night."

"I think that's what I'm most _afraid _of."

"Having to remember yet someone else."

"Yes."

Quite suddenly, they heard two voices coming up fast, behind them, and feet hitting the pavement in a run. "I don't believe you."

"Truth. She grabs me and plants a big, wet kiss right on my mouth." The voices separated, and one young man ran around Bruno's right, the other around Macpherson's left.

"What was it like?" The two grabbed hands, again, apparently, and continued running.

"Like kissing Hitler."

"Thief."

"Well, it's memorable." The voices faded in front of them. They were, Bruno thought, about twenty. Neither wore a jacket.

Macpherson looked at Bruno, challenging. "If you think I'm going to grab your hand, run down the street and catch up with them, you're out of your mind," said Bruno. Macpherson kept looking at him.

* * *

"_Let's go for it_," Bruno said, grabbed Macpherson's hand, and they ran. Both were in good shape—as good as eight years ago, in fact, and the two in front of them were not running for speed, just fun—so it didn't take long. The two young men stopped and turned around. 

"You mocking us?" one said.

"Hell no. We were just wondering if two old men could catch up with two young ones."

"Old men? How old?" asked the other.

"I'm 37," said Bruno.

"I'm 34," said Macpherson.

"You don't look it." With a single impulse, both bowed. The two young men laughed.

"What do you do for a living?" asked one.

"We re cops," said Macpherson.

"We're policemen," said Bruno.

"Jiggers," said one of the young men, and they ran off, laughing, one turning to wave.

They continued walking, satisfied. Macpherson said, "I kept waiting for you to come back—back then. I heard it would be two more days. And then they transferred me."

"I know. They made me take my whole fucking sick leave for the year! Fortunately, I never get sick." He let out a deep breath. "So. They sent you to mind the rich folks."

"The worst. That's why I looked up here in New York for work… But…" Macpherson went on quietly, "…I missed you, Jimmy."

"Sure, you missed a quivering mass of Jell-O."

Macpherson didn't think this worth answering.

"Jim, what did you mean… 'slaughtered'?"

"I'm… not sure. Who knew—about you and Coop?"

Bruno shrugged. "It's hard to know. They teased us, but it didn't seem like they really meant it. We were… such a great team. I thought the jibes were due mostly to jealousy. Oh yeah… that last night. Murphy—he really had it in for Coop—God, everyone did—superior officers, crooks, everyone—Coop was always getting in everyone's face, if they gave him any provocation at all… Anyway, McCree goes to Coop and tells him about the robbery calls, and then, when Murph passes me, he says, 'Keep an eye on those bath houses, Jimmy.' It was usually Coop that got that stuff. It blew me away, even though it was just like all the other junk. That's when I told Coop to go to hell, and he took off alone, and…" He shook his head. "I don't want to talk about this anymore." But he went on, "I think maybe Eileen knew, but she never said so in so many words. Anyway, so now we're both in homicide, and it's all dust and ashes."

"I'm sorry, but…" _What good will it do to tell him?_ "…I think the reason I was transferred was that I kept talking about that 3½-inch shell. They're only issued to police and the military—hell, you know that. A lot of things are, and other people get hold of them. But I did sort of hammer it in, and I wasn't even in homicide… And… what happened to Coop's patrol log, the 'Need a unit. Armed robber last seen on foot' …it wasn't in there. We both heard it."

"How do you know it wasn't in his log?"

"I managed to get a look at it. Made a fuss about that, too."

"Probably thought he'd put it in after the bust…"

They walked in silence for a moment. "He wasn't afraid of anything. I don't just mean physical danger. That last night, when I told him to get lost, I wasn't queer, he asked me 'Are you afraid?' and I said it didn't have anything to do with that, which was the biggest crock of shit I ever threw at anyone, and he said 'I'm afraid, too.' Can you imagine?"

Macpherson continued walking, his eyes on the sidewalk.

"And… no bribes. Wouldn't take any of Burke's money, or anyone else's."

"Did you?"

"Of course. It was expected… like… taking Communion." Macpherson laughed so hard he had to lean against a lamppost; Bruno laughed too. Macpherson came back and put an arm around Bruno's waist. And vice versa. There was a longish pause. Macpherson said nothing, kept walking, his eyes on the sidewalk.

"What?" said Bruno. He wanted to say how great was running down the street holding hands, and walking down the street, their arms around each other, like kids. But he didn't.

"That would be a hard act to follow, it would."

"You think like that?" He paused. "But you're not like Coop. You're _not_ Coop."

"No. But… you may be right about the jealousy. Everyone wants to be fearless. Everyone wants to not take bribes, if only they were a little _richer_, if only their superior officers weren't taking them, and spreading it around generously."

"Why does life… cost so much, anyway?"

Macpherson reached in his pocket, and brought out nothing between two fingers. "Hey, I've got a hole in me pocket," he said cheerfully.

"Never had no point of view."

"Don't know where he's going to."

"Isn't he a bit like you and me?"

"No." said Macpherson.

"Not really," said Bruno, as Macpherson turned them left up some steps. "Where are we?"

"Where the hell do you think we are?" He grabbed the brass handle and opened the wooden door, held it open. "My apartment." Bruno went into the lobby and leaned back against the left wall, waiting for Macpherson by the mailboxes, against the apartment buzzers.

"OH SHIT!" said Macpherson, putting his hands to his head. "You just buzzed all the buzzers. What's the matter with you—didn't you grow up in a big city?" He laughed, and Bruno scootched over away from the mailboxes and buttons.

"How could I forget?" he said. "I grew up on a farm, with my aunt and uncle, mostly, but I've…"

Macpherson braced himself with his right hand on the mailboxes, his left to the left of Bruno. "Band aid," he said.

Bruno's eyes smiled.

Macpherson kissed his right cheek, "I think… maybe you might want to spend a lot of days off and vacations…" he kissed his left cheek, "up here."

"That'd be…" Bruno put his arms around him as Macpherson's mouth softly met his and their bodies melted together.

Two middle-aged women came in the front door. "And then she tells me, _out of the clear_ _blue sky_ 'I've got cancer.'" They both looked at the two men in a clinch.

"Well, at least _someone _is having a nice day," said one, and they both laughed as she unlocked the inner door.

Neither even said, "Get a room."

* * *

Author's notes: 

"Mama, You've been on my Mind," (1964) is the way Bob Dylan wrote it. But Joan Baez sang it "Baby." (lead-in to story; and later in Macpherson's thoughts), and even Dylan lovers often listened to Baez sing Dylan—she has the better voice.

"Like kissing Hitler," is what Tony Curtis said when asked what it was like kissing Marilyn Monroe in "Some Like it Hot" (1959). They got off to a rocky start making the film, and their relationship deteriorated from there.

"I've got a hole in me pocket," is from the movie "Yellow Submarine," (1968), as are the three lines following (from the song "Nowhere Man").

"Kid" Ory is probably the best known of all the old New Orleans "Tailgate" Trombonists. He used his instrument for the fills and glissandi that were so much a part of the original Dixieland Jazz, and later for those great forceful solos that became a feature of "Chicago Style" Dixieland Jazz. (There were no solos in the Ensemble playing of the original Dixieland). Ory's dates: 1886—1973.

What Bruno and Macpherson had learned of each other (since they last met) would have been exclusively through the phone book and the police grapevine (used sparingly). The internet existed—barely—but a big city police force like NYC would only have about two computers, and these were largely payroll machines, and for big wheels to write reports on (except that most preferred their typewriters). They were huge. No one had a PC at his desk, or in his home. Really practical uses hadn't been thought of for the general population yet, though science and the military were already using them for these things. Computers as glorified calculators had existed for nearly a century, but even though the British cracked the Nazi submarine code through the first real computer in World War Two (see "Breaking the Code," not "Enigma" for this story), faces, tracking credit cards, life histories, and the movements of people, e-mail, even for the police—were yet to come.

Cannoli insides: fresh sweetened ricotta, a bit of bittersweet chocolate, some cinnamon and vanilla, finely ground pistachio nuts—and something else I can't place.

Many thanks for additions, corrections and inspiration to Sid Melucci--you wouoldn't think it would take two people to write this story, would you?


End file.
